The list

I’m getting ahead of this 

And telling you now

The list will have my name on it. Everybody’s

Sweating it. The things they’ve done swing before their eyes,

As if acting out the opposite of hypnosis.

In the grass and all the wrong, mowing, stars.

The rabbit, quietly, because it didn’t want anyone to know.

No anesthetic, please. I should just

Face it head on,

Undiagnosed.

The grass and all the wrong. You know, the world can be divided into two sorts:

The ruined beneficiaries of science and the rabbits. 

The slice

 (For Wayne Thiebaud)

A curse will eventually jinx

The poor, 

The dead 

Will get unburied, while the sun

Unsets and there’s an opposite 

Of a sparrow, too.

Of looking. Of classification.

When we think about Victorian science 

It’s with bravado. 

Nobody wants to associate with a passing version of

What happened.

Holga.

 Isn’t it funny how memory is presented in memory?

It is given from the past.

Ever forward, ever on: a body falls deep within itself:

Will I be pretty, will I be rich?

Shall I be the shell on top of 

Beauty, this time when it comes up?

Meanwhile, electricity is famous.